


Early Harvest

by singingwithoutwords



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Phil Coulson, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-12 22:35:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1203070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singingwithoutwords/pseuds/singingwithoutwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU for Reap What You Sow.</p>
<p>Sir returns from a fundraiser drunk and deeply shaken, and orders Jarvis not to contact his team or either of his closest friends.  Out of other options, Jarvis calls the only name left on the very short list of people Tony Stark trusts, a number he isn't even sure will be answered: Agent Phillip Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Harvest

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Reap What You Sow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/998020) by [singingwithoutwords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singingwithoutwords/pseuds/singingwithoutwords). 



> It really hurt my Coulson fanboy heart to have to leave him out of RWYS, since I do think he's fond of Tony. And I figured hell, my birthday's coming up- why not write myself a present?
> 
> So yes, happy early birthday to me, this is my present to myself.
> 
> This should not be considered canon for the gardenverse. It is an AU of _Reap What You Sow_ , which is why it's listed as Inspired By rather than in the series itself.

Phil had been awake for eight days when his phone rang. ****

It was late – exactly 02:27, he'd been obsessively tracking every minute – but Phil hadn't been sleeping. He'd gotten enough sleep while in a medically-induced coma, and he thought he understood at least a little of what Rogers had felt coming out of the ice, almost afraid to close his eyes in case he'd lost even more time when he opened them. Phil had been awake, staring at the ceiling of his bland, impersonal room in Medical, when the phone on the bedside table started ringing.

He hadn't expected that phone to ever ring again. It was his private phone from before his death and resurrection, the one only a handful of people had the number to, and all of those people believed he was still dead. Fury had suggested it might be a good idea to get rid of it, but Phil kept it, even though he could never use it again.

And it was ringing.

It took three rings for Phil to throw off his surprise, sitting up carefully and grabbing the thing. This was the securest facility SHIELD had, which meant whoever it was had to be calling from inside, which meant it was someone who knew where he was and knew he was alive. Which meant it hurt nothing to answer it.

So he flipped it open on a blocked number and pressed TALK. “Coulson.”

He was met with a moment of silence, then a familiar voice that sounded just faintly artificial and very, very relieved. “Agent Coulson,” JARVIS said. “I do hope I haven't woken you.”

“No, I was awake,” Phil said, leaning back against his pillow. “How did Stark know I could be reached?”

“Sir is not aware I've contacted you,” JARVIS said, somewhat guiltily. “I am certain he still believes you dead, as you are the only of his trusted circle he did _not_ forbid me to call.”

“What's wrong?” Phil didn't pretend to know what kind of coding governed an AI as sophisticated and alive as JARVIS, but he knew that if JARVIS was willing to try calling dead men because all other options had been cut off, something had to be wrong.

“I do not know,” JARVIS said, and Phil clearly detected frustration and helplessness there, because Stark didn't half-ass anything he did. If JARVIS had a physical body, Phil could easily picture him anxiously running a hand through his hair and pacing. “Sir will not talk to me. There are no outward signs of injury, but something has happened to him.”

“Okay,” Phil said, swinging his legs over the side of the narrow bed. His chest, still tender and not quite healed, twinged in protest. He ignored it and slowly stood, activating speakerphone and setting the phone on the table. “I need you to tell me everything you know. I assume he left your sight at some point?”

“Yes. Sir and the Avengers attended a charity fundraiser last evening,” JARVIS explained. “The limousine they took is not one to which I am connected.”

“Are any of the others showing signs of distress?” Phil asked. He had a suit in the miniscule closet. Hill had delivered it his first day awake, claiming he'd heal better near a tie and blazer. It was slightly too big – spending a few months in a coma was apparently an excellent method of weight loss – but it would do. He shed the scrubs he'd been wearing and started dressing himself properly.

“No. Agents Barton and Romanov and Doctor Banner exhibited slight signs of inebriation, but they, Prince Thor, and Captain Rogers are all currently asleep.”

“Is Stark asleep?”

“... Not at the moment.”

Phil eased his shirt on carefully, not wanting to tear open his wound and get blood all over it, and frowned. The pause had to be deliberate- JARVIS was far too well-made for it to be a hiccup in his vocal software. “What do you mean?”

“Sir has fallen asleep four times since returning home at 11:54pm,” JARVIS explained. “He has not remained asleep for more than 30 minutes at any of those times, and is not currently sleeping.”

“Nightmares?” Phil guessed, sitting to begin the arduous task of putting on socks.

“That is my guess as well.”

“Talk to him,” Phil said, slipping on his shoes. He privately suspected Hill might have foreseen him making a break for it at some point and had at least wanted him to be decent when he did so. “Try to keep him awake and engaged, any way you can.”

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS said, his voice relaxing slightly. “Shall I be expecting you at the Tower?”

“Yes. I don't know where I am so I can't give you a concrete ETA, but I will be there as soon as possible,” Phil promised, standing and reaching for his ID badge, which hopefully still worked. “Just keep Stark occupied as long as possible. Keep him from drinking if you can, and don't let him work on anything that might explode.”

“Sir has already disposed of all alcohol in his workshop.”

Phil actually had to stop moving for a minute to process that, grabbing his phone and switching speaker off as he headed for the door. “What?”

The uneasy pause lasted until Phil was out of his room and halfway down the hall. “After last waking, sir insinuated that whatever happened did so as a result of his inebriation,” JARVIS explained at length. “He and U between them disposed of all alcohol in the workshop. I... Agent Coulson, I am concerned.”

“So am I,” Phil admitted, forcing his back straight as he walked past a night nurse. This was a SHIELD facility, and as long as he didn't act as though he was injured, a man in a suit should be commonplace enough to be overlooked. Half of infiltration – and ex-filtration – was simply acting as though you belonged there, after all.

“Keep him talking as much as you can. I'll contact you when I'm _en route_. ”

“Thank you, Agent Coulson,” JARVIS said, and Phil got the impression he was indulging in whatever the AI equivalent of a relieved sigh was.

Phil hung up and slipped his phone into his pocket, resisting the urge to run. His body would hate him enough for this in the morning.

His badge still worked, to his relief, letting him out of the secure wing and into the more public areas of the facility. He walked through the lobby at a pace perfected over the years, fast enough that no one would bother him but slow enough that no one would be concerned enough to follow him. The layout was very much uniform, and he made the hangar without getting lost or sidetracked. He had only a limited window before someone discovered he wasn't in his room anymore, so he pulled on his authority like an expensive jacket and grabbed the nearest agent who didn't look busy.

“I need a jet,” Phil informed the man, leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

“Yessir,” the agent responded, grabbing the radio strapped to his waist.

Phil listened with half an ear while his transport was arranged, checking the hangar for clues. Hospital wing was too large for any of the city bases. He could smell the faint tang of salt water, so on the coast. Accents were wrong for the west coast. Medical-oriented east coast base, too cold for Florida, too close to the coast for Virginia; that left the base in Rhode Island. A very short trip, thank goodness.

“Where are you headed, sir?”

“New York City, and I'm prioritizing speed over comfort.”

“That bad, huh?” the agent asked, sighing. “Hey, Don, nix Jefferson and pull Toomes off break. Yeah, we need this one quick.”

“Thank you,” Phil said, mostly out of habit. His shoulder was twinging and his legs were protesting the sudden increase in activity, but he managed not to show any of it as he was led across the hangar to a mini-jet.

The mini-jets were one of the last things Stark had given SHIELD before Phil had briefly died; roughly two-thirds the size of a standard quinjet, faster and more stable but without all the niceties like leg room or sound shielding. Phil hadn't had a chance to ride in one before, but he remembered Barton telling him it was probably the closest to being an actual hawk he would ever come.

Phil climbed in without a word, taking the co-pilot's chair. The pilot didn't comment, just handed him a helmet. “Ever ridden one of these?” she asked, grinning when Phil shook his head. “Hold onto something, then- you're gonna love this.”

* * *

Whether or not he 'loved' it was up for debate by the time he landed at the NYC airstrip. Sitting in the cockpit hadn't exactly been restful, and his physical therapist was going to skin him alive for setting himself so far back, but Phil bottled that down for later, because there was a towncar waiting on the tarmac, complete with driver and carefully printed sign reading AGENT.

The driver looked Phil up and down, hoisting one eyebrow. “Name suits you,” was all he said before opening the door and letting Phil climb in.

“Stark Tower,” Phil said. “Don't break any traffic laws, but make it quick.”

The driver slipped into the (comparatively) thin post-midnight traffic, and Phil leaned back and pulled out his phone, texting JARVIS. Almost there.

The drive was longer than he would have liked, but the driver was professional and polite, and assured him he'd already been paid and tipped handsomely when he dropped him off at the main entrance.

JARVIS let him in, quietly directing him to the elevator, which stopped on a floor he'd previously been barred from. He felt slightly guilty, entering Stark's workshop without his permission, but he stepped through the doors regardless.

The lights were on but dimmed. All of the work stations were dark, the air empty of the transparent frames he'd come to associate with Stark and his private spaces. The only movement was one of Stark's pet robots, dragging a broom through a mess of shattered glass while another robot held a dustpan. A third robot stood guard over the couch, its claw carefully grasping Stark's hand.

The lights were just bright enough to show Phil that Stark looked like shit. He looked worse than when he'd been slowly poisoning himself, and if not for the information JARVIS had already given him, he'd think the man had drunk himself into a waking coma. He was dressed in rumpled, stained slacks and an equally dirty dress shirt streaked on the cuff with what looked to Phil's eye like vomit. He stared directly at Phil for a long moment, then sighed and turned his face into the couch cushions.

“Figures you'd be first,” Stark said, laughing bitterly.

“First?” Phil asked, stepping toward the couch. The robot with the dustbin dropped it, swinging its arm into Phil's path.

“You're a shitty hallucination, Agent,” Stark accused.

“Yes, I'm a bit solid to pull that off,” Phil agreed, trying to step around the robot only to have the other one try and hit him with its broom. “Please call off your guard dogs.”

Stark lifted his head, confused. “Bots don't hallucinate.”

“No, they don't, sir,” JARVIS said with every evidence of warmth and concern. “Agent Coulson is quite real, I assure you.”

“Oh.” Stark stared at him a moment more before pulling himself into a sitting position. “Dummy, You, leave Agent alone. How are you even here?”

“JARVIS called me.”

“Traitor.”

“You never forbade me to call Agent Coulson,” JARVIS said almost smugly.

“Yeah, 'cause I thought he was _dead_. ”

“Well, now you know I'm not,” Phil said. “Do you mind if I sit down? I've been on my feet for maybe a bit longer that is wise at the moment.”

Stark gestured wordlessly at the other end of the couch, running a hand through his hair. Phil took that as permission and stepped over, gratefully sinking onto the couch.

“So,” he said, leaning back carefully. “Tell me what happened. And please don't insult my intelligence by trying to answer with any variation of _nothing_ or _I don't know what you mean_. ”

Stark sighed, resting his forehead against the robot still next to him. “I fucked up.”

Phil put on his best neutral, I'm-not-judging-you voice. “How?”

“I drink too much. And I'm a slut.”

“Being a slut requires actually having sex,” Phil said. Given what JARVIS had told him earlier, the sudden epiphany regarding Stark's drinking problem was secondary, meaning the 'slut' issue was likely the cause of all this, and he distinctly recalled more than one discussion with Pepper somehow landing on the lack of sexual intimacy in her relationship with Stark.

Stark made a noise he might have intended to be a laugh. “With five people at once?”

“Did you have sex with five people at once?”

“Technically four,” Stark said, forcing pride into his voice in a way that was physically painful to hear. “Nat didn't get to ride me, she doesn't count.”

You didn't last in an agency like SHIELD for as long as Phil had without learning to hear not only what people said, but also what was hidden in the _way_ they said it. Stark was always very careful about what he projected; making Natasha the subject of that simple statement told Phil volumes. Not only about his state of mind at the moment, but about his feelings over whatever sort of sexual encounter he'd had with the team. His wording placed her in a position of power over him, something Stark would not do lightly. Or on purpose.

“And the others?” he asked, testing the boundaries, pushing but prepared to pull back if need be.

“They all got a chance to fuck me.”

And again, Stark put himself in the passive position. There were a dozen different ways Stark could have phrased that to make himself the subject, active and empowered, rather than just the recipient of the actions of his teammates.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Stark snorted, shifting slightly so his face was hidden. “Ask them.”

“Their answers won't be as accurate as yours.”

“I told you I'm a slut.”

“That isn't the question I asked, Stark,” Phil said. “Did you enjoy it? Yes or no?”

The answering silence was enough.

“One last question,” Phil said, steeling himself for what he suspected the answer would be. “Did anyone, at any point, ask for your consent?”

Stark hunched in on himself just slightly, unconsciously defensive, and shook his head.

Phil sighed, fishing his phone out of his pocket and flipping it open. He still had Fury's personal numbers memorized, which was good- nothing short of the Director's orders could give him what he needed right now. He dialed Fury's private office line and listened to it ring.

"Where the fuck are you, Coulson?" Fury demanded by way of greeting.

"Stark Tower, sir," Phil answered evenly. He knew Fury well enough to tell he was irritated, but not actually angry. "I need a containment team."

"For?"

"The Avengers, minus Stark. There's been an interpersonal incident, and I'd like to take care of it as soon as possible."

"Why the hell did dispatch contact you?"

"They didn't, sir- Stark's AI did. It should go without saying that this needs to be handled discreetly. Call in Sitwell if you can; he can be counted on not to gossip."

“If you so much as pop a fucking stitch, I'm gonna murder you and hide the body where even Romanov won't be able to find it,” Fury threatened, which was really just his way of saying he'd see to it.

“Naturally, sir. Let me know when the team's on its way.”

He hung up on a string of curses in two languages he recognized and one he didn't. Fury had been studying while he was out.

Stark was staring at him, his expression confused all over again. “The hell just happened?”

Phil smiled his blandest. “Just doing my job, Mr. Stark. I am going to need a statement from you, but don't worry- everything will be kept strictly confidential. Not even Director Fury will be able to access anything without your permission."

"You can do that?" Stark asked. "What am I saying, of course you can, never mind. Do we have to do this now?"

"It's best to go over everything while it's still fresh in your mind. And the sooner we can take the team into custody and assign appropriate punishment, the harder it will be to convince yourself this debacle is your fault."

“You say that like it's _not_ my fault. ”

“It isn't.”

“Um... yeah, it is. I'm the one who got so trashed I wasn't coherent enough to say 'fuck off'.”

“And they are the ones who assumed the absence of a no was the same as a yes,” Phil pointed out. “They didn't give you a _chance_ to say no; that makes this their fault.”

“Does not,” Stark said automatically.

“Now you're just arguing for the sake of arguing,” Phil said. “You should take a shower. And then, if you feel up to it, I'd like you to accompany me back to HQ.” The walls and masks would fall back into place, Phil knew, and he'd rather Stark have at least his support when they did.

Stark shrugged, patting his robot absently, then pulled himself to his feet. “Butterfingers, get Agent a drink. You, Dummy, why's there still glass on my floor? I'm gonna shower, nobody fuck with anything.”

There was a nervous tension to his spine and an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice, but at least he was up. The last thing he needed now was what he'd likely do on his own- hide down here until someone forcibly dragged him out, completely convinced he alone was to blame. The mask was a necessary evil for now, until Phil could convince him to let Pepper or Rhodes support him properly. Once the team was safely separated, that would be Phil's next project.

DUM-E and U went back to slowly and inefficiently sweeping, and the third robot returned to the couch with a glass of water, bumping it against Phil's hand until he took it.

“Agent Coulson,” JARVIS said quietly, barely audible over the noise the robots were making. “Thank you.”

“Any time, JARVIS,” Phil assured him, and he meant it. “Any time.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> But seriously, did I just write an AU for my own sequel to another person's fic, based on a prompt from a kink meme? Welcome to the internet, folks.


End file.
